Cetti's Symphony
by waistcoat35
Summary: Classicaloid Fic After hearing an extraordinary sound when drawn outside for a walk, Beethoven finds himself intrigued by birds, in particular one that catches his attention and brings forth a forgotten memory. As his new hobby grows, perhaps Beethoven will grow to better appreciate things he needs more than he thinks...
1. Symphony 2, Movement 4

Beethoven's Birdwatching

It's early February when it first happens. The leafy shoots are not quite taking hold on the trees yet, the plum blossoms only just beginning to flower. The air is sharp and clear and the sunlight a gentle glow against the ground - everything looks crisp and fresh and inviting, and perhaps this is why Beethoven decides on the spur of the moment to go for a walk. Something about the idea of going outside and just wandering through the rural scenery appeals to him in a way he just can't put his finger on - perhaps it is something he needs to remember.

All the more reason to clear his head, then - he's been languishing indoors in one of his dark moods for too long anyway. He rises from his seat by the window, not bothering to call out where he is going - whether this is because he thinks nobody will care or because he is uncertain of where to go himself he does not know.

He has been walking for some time now, breathing in the winter air and letting it gnaw and worry at his lungs, turquoise eyes taking in his surroundings. He is briskly walking down a narrow lane with hedgerows on either side, not fast enough to bypass the enjoyment of the outing but not too slowly either - slowness is not something he will tolerate in large doses today. Today he is wind and sky and sunlight, high notes and crescendos and chiming melodies contributed to by his heartbeat and his breath and his footsteps all coming together in one symphony, that exciting, intense, intriguing symphony known as _Life_.

It is as he reaches this moment of clarity that it happens - that he hears it. His train of thought, so often unstoppable as it barrels on towards it's intended destination, is sharply diverted onto a new set of tracks as a new sound blossoms into place among the rustling of the leaves and the brushing of the wind against the hedgerows.

 _"CHWEE! Chwee Chwe-we-WE-we!"_

Beethoven finally slows, one eyebrow raising in slight bewilderment as he searches for the source of the sound. No sooner does he approach the spot where he thinks he heard it than it sounds from a completely different direction, further up the lane.

 _"What is this madness?"_

He chases the sound up and down the lane for a good twenty minutes before he finally thinks to question the subject of his fascination - what on earth had possessed him to pursue the wretched sound with such determination?

Secretly, he knows the answer. From the moment he heard the sound he has been able to feel the long forgotten memory he was previously pondering retreating from the darkest recesses of his mind into the blinding light of clarity. But now the sound has finally ceased, and it's slipping again. He has to get back, has do something to stop it from falling out of his grasp altogether...

When Beethoven returns home the house initially seems to be empty for the afternoon, until he hears a cry of "Beethoven-Senpai!" and Franz - _Schubert_ , that's his name, he reprimands himself - rushes to his side holding a steaming black coffee. Beethoven still cannot fathom the reason behind the man's deep-rooted loyalty and admiration for him - he is great at what he does, yes, but surely he has done nothing truly good or noble to deserve the man's unrivalled attention to such a degree. He hardly classes his seemingly out-of-nowhere dark moods, (he wishes he could escape them, but it is not to be, it seems) his abrupt, borderline cold manner or his quick temper as being worthy of this devotion.

He has tried ignoring it in the hopes that it will discourage the man, but he is not easily deterred. It isn't good for Schubert to place such high esteem in him, placing the great Ludwig van Beethoven far above himself. The man undervalues himself - what he has seen of Schubert's music is incredibly impressive, and if he continues this way then his great potential shall continue to grow. He is not worth the trouble that the younger composer goes to for him.

However, they cannot continue in this endless circle of admiration and constant dismissal, and so he takes the coffee and thanks the man for his kindness. He feels something ache within him at how happy this seems to make Schubert, and wants nothing more than to yell at him to stop this nonsense, to stop pursuing his idol in this way when to see greatness he need not look any further than himself. But breaking the man's trust in him would hurt just as much as seeing it continue.

"You're most welcome, Beethoven-Senpai!"

"Enough of this, just Beethoven. We are all the same here, Schubert."

He walks past Franz into the sitting room so as to avoid his reaction, allowing the coffee mug to warm his chilled hands after his excursion. Sousuke must have rushed out for something, as Pad-Kun is lying face down on the sofa. He turns it over and it comes out of standby, appearing pleased to see him.

"Ah, Beethe-san! How nice to see you! I see Sousuke forgot me again, of course."

Beethoven wastes little time with pleasantries, describing the sound to the device and waiting as it churns out results. Finally he finds an audio file that looks promising, so he plays it...

And there it is. The sound is not quite so sharp and clear when recorded rather than in the open air, however it is unmistakeable all the same. As he hears it once more it seems that at least part of the memory returns, as now there is a jumble of sounds and notes in his mind. He quickly snatches up a pen and a handkerchief - the nearest things to him - and tries to make sense of the notes as they come, scribbling each one down. And indeed, as he writes the more they begin to make sense to him, until he can place each one in perfect order. He thinks the arrangement seems strikingly familiar - until he tries whistling the tune, over and over until he gets the rhythm just right. He ignores Schubert, who is peeking around the doorway and listening in silent appreciation, and indeed so lost in the tune is he that he almost misses Pad-Kun's next words.

" _Ludwig van Beethoven's 2nd Symphony, the opening of the fourth movement!"_

His gaze shotting back to the screen of the device, Beethoven goes back to the audio file and looks at the name and image alongisde it - a dark beige little bird with a stubby tuft for a tale, feathers the colour of the froth on a hot chocolate.

" _Cetti's Warbler - Cettia Cetti."_

And so he knows why this memory returned. He bends over in silent thought as Schubert collects the now-empty coffee mug, wondering how certain birds and certain people can give him such pause and fascination where no others can.


	2. Symphony 5, Movement 1

It's the Yellowhammer that starts it - Beethoven is sitting on the sofa, his chin resting in one palm as he faces the garden. The girl, Kanae, will probably scold him for kneeling on the cushions later, but the window is open and he had feels like some fresh air.

One of the others - from the pitch it sounded like it was most likely Schubert - is humming broken snatches of a tune from the kitchen. It's the early afternoon, and the house is surprisingly quiet - Beethoven is left to his thoughts, gazing out of the window. That's new - he is rarely content to simply gaze, he has to examine everything sharply to find some kind of hidden meaning to it.

At some point a gently steaming cup of tea has been placed on the small table beside his perch. (Definitely Schubert, then - nobody else bothers with tea but Liszt, and they hardly spoke, let alone made one another drinks.) The slightly perfumed scent combined with the cool draught from the window calms his normally edgy nerves, the soft tune floating into the room sending him into something of a daze.

His posture gradually loosens, and Beethoven has almost dozed off when he hears the trilling call from the garden. As with before, it feels as though the fresh air has entered his mind and renewed it as something about the sound sparks his consciousness. He tenses, leaning forward so that he can better glimpse the source of the sound.

There's no mysterious caller hiding in bushes this time, though. Something stirs within Beethoven when his eyes finally catch it - a small yellow bird clinging to the rim of the violin-shaped pond, it's crest streaked like a mint humbug. It tilts it's head skywards with an air of humble delicacy, unaware of Hasshie watching from nearby, highly affronted that his domain has been invaded.

He gets up, keeping his eyes fixated on the bird as long as possible as he sidles to the door, before quickly opening it and stepping out, hoping to get a better view. The door swings shut with a rather loud click, causing Beethoven to wince slightly in frustration and the bird to pause, turning it's head slightly to glance back at him. He freezes, waiting with bated breath until the bird turns once again.

It begins sipping water from the pond, occasionally shifting one foot or the other so as not to fall into the water. He doesn't know where this fascination with the creatures has come from, but Beethoven can't help but come closer, enamoured with the small bird.

He is just a few metres away from the pond when something falls over with a crash across the street. The yellowhammer gives a jerk as it twists it's whole body around, fixing him with an almost accusing stare. His turquoise eyes meet the dark orbs as he finds himself locked in the creature's gaze, a defiant yet controlled thing that holds him captive.

He remembers something else that has always done so - fate. It's dark grasp is one he has eluded and been ensnared by and eventually beaten down, and yet he still thinks of it's fateful knocking on his door. A knocking that sounds almost similar to the sound the creature makes - and yet there is just something else that captivates him so.

Suddenly the moment is broken as Hasshie lurches forward, apparently tired of waiting for the bird to drink it's fill, driving the ball of yellow down off towards the gates. It perches on the wall the gates are connected to, giving a last call as an act of defiance. As he watches it flit away, Beethoven can feel a prescence behind him. He doesn't turn immediately, preferring to escape from reality a moment longer until Schubert's soothing baritones reach his ears.

"In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold,  
The yellowhammer, trailing grass, will come  
To fix a place and choose an early home,  
With yellow breast and head of solid gold."

He tilts his head inquisitively, looking almost comically like the Yellowhammer for a moment as his glinting eyes meet Schubert's slightly dimmed magenta ones.

"My - my apologies, Beethoven-Senpai... I mean, um, Beethoven."

Schubert corrects himself as Beethoven looks at him almost reprimandingly, a silent reminder of what he had established about the addressing of Schubert's idol before. He doubts the sense in the younger composer's admiration as it is, without such nicknames being thrust upon him.

"It is quite alright, Schubert. May I enquire as to the meaning of what you said?"

Schubert looks surprised and slightly pleased to be asked, as if glad that his words seemed to be significant to Beethoven.

"Oh, i - it's nothing much, simply a verse I remember reading a while back. Seeing the creature just reminded me, is all. Why do you ask, if you don't mind my saying?"

Beethoven shrugs, taking note of the slightly more pleasant, if not entirely relaxed, atmosphere.

"I was simply curious about the creature. A Yellowhammer, you say?"

Schubert nods. He seems as though he wants to ask something else, but shakes it off and turns to retreat back indoors. Beethoven follows, falling into step behind him. When he has closed the front door once again Schubert is already heading to the kitchen counter with two cups in hand. Beethoven places a hand on his shoulder, taking the cups from Schubert and continuing to the kettle where he flicks it on. He turns to the other man, deciding that it's only fair if he makes the coffee once in a while - Schubert seems to do enough running around after him already, and a small part of him can't help but feel guilty that he shows so little appreciation for those who ensure his wellbeing sometimes.

He hands a cup of tea over to Schubert, hoping that it is to his liking - how is it that he knows so much about Beethoven's quirks and preferences, and Beethoven so little about his? - and returns to the living room. There he sets his drink down on the table as he retrieves some notepaper from the mantlepiece and heads back to the kitchen briefly, to fetch a pencil from the drawer of odds and ends that is usually found in various states of disarray. Now it is in some form of order - most likely Schubert's doing, as Kanae is too busy clearing up the messes made by his fellow classicaloids and, subsequently, him.

He retrieves one and turns, noticing as he retreats that Schubert is smiling slightly into his cup of tea, and has resumed humming that song in snatches of verse, as if trying to work out how it goes.

He seats himself back on the sofa, the right way round this time so as not to soil the cushions, and leans his elbows on the table slightly as he begins to sketch a delicate, downy shape, filling in the details and finally ending with the eyes, the dark eyes of fate that urge his mind on as he feels the reminisces of a song curling at the edge of his memory...


	3. Symphony 6, Movement 4

It keeps happening again and again - every once in a while, on days of no particular significance, Beethoven will hear a tune carried by the wind, sometimes high and reedy, sometimes low and cackling, that gives him pause and stirs something in - well, he once thought it was his mind. But now, he also feels something in a place much closer to his heart as well.

It is many things coming together that causes this feeling, he thinks. The beauty of the birdsong, the joy of being able to hear it so clearly. The contentment he keeps experiencing when watching the creatures, a feeling of slight exhiliration as though this is a world he has been allowed into over time. The way that all of it somehow seems to make it easier to talk to Schubert.

He doesn't know why, but after noticing his fascination with birds Schubert seems to have been just slightly more relaxed around him. It is not a drastic change, nor is it immediately obvious, but it is there. Something about the way he acts when immersed in his interest, perhaps - it makes him seem more human, more accessible. And that's good - he's tired of being a pillar of greatness, some sort of godlike being who is only admired due to his music. Beethoven wonders to himself if it is not because of this that he has made an unconscious effort to keep up this facade - he is gradually becoming fond of Schubert, so certain of his place in the world and yet so underappreciative of his own potential. The reason that he has the unwavering attention of the man is due to his musical prowess and supposed majesty - if he becomes just another person, if he stops appearing to be something that he is certainly not but is thought to be by Schubert, then he will leave as well.

Everybody leaves - they say that they will stay, they say that they enjoy his company - but in the end, none of them remain once this facade has dropped. Until now - something seems to be different.

Despite this new development and, for Schubert, a revelation when it comes to aspects of his character, Beethoven does not yet find himself alone. It is not yet obvious to the other residents of the house - but when it is he wonders whether Mozart will still ask him to help with his latest plan to cause trouble, if any of the others will speak to him at all. Kanae seems to permanently remain in a state between annoyed and close to death by fury no matter how he appears to her.

Schubert is the one who notices things - who is not entirely wrapped up in the everyday trifles of their world, but takes the time to think of a grander scheme of things. He does not always speak when he senses a change in the house or one of its inhabitants, but still he sees. Beethoven can tell he always sees.

Shortly after their encounter in the garden, Beethoven is surprised one day, after wondering how to identify a medium sized, odd sounding bird seen in the dead tree at the end of the street, to find something apparently for him sitting on the desk in his room. Closer inspection reveals it is a fairly detailed guide to birds - it can't have been lying around the house, it appears to be brand new - only one person knows of his new interest, leading him to believe that the man must have acquired this with him in mind.

This feels different to the other things Schubert has done for him. All others have been big, obvious, extravagant. Going to Cuba to fetch guitar materials, indeed. Things such as that were intended to earn his eternal gratitude, to get Schubert noticed. They were too bold, too fleeting, simply catering to whatever whim he was following at the time. They didn't feel like something that the real Schubert would do - because Beethoven knows, even now, that there is far more to Schubert than this frantic, overly irritable man who chases after him at any given opportunity - who makes no effort to interact excessively witht he others in favour of doing so.

Occasionally he has seen glimpses - a quiet, thoughtful, almost philosophical young man who notices the things and people around him, and _cares._ Whose music flows smoothly and reflects his true character, yet never tries to outshine another's. Franz Schubert is different and aware of bigger things than himself, he is modest and kind. And Beethoven doesn't quite understand why Franz himself cannot always seem to see that. Especially when he sees the good in Beethoven so prominently, where Beethoven can see none. Perhaps sometimes they all need somebody to see the good in them where they themselves can't.

He sits down at the desk, sliding the book towards him and tentatively opening it up to the first page. He scans the contents page until he finds one of the latest sightings to provoke his memory, the cuckoo. It stares him down from its position on the page - most see a parasite, a despicable creature that is too idle to build itself a nest or raise it's own young, instead leaving them to other species whose own young are killed by the bird. Indeed, that is the basic explanation for what they do, according to the book. They take other birds' space, they take up their time, they take the pleasures that others have - they are simply unlikeable.

Beethoven's grip has tightened on the page, and suddenly he isn't so sure if he's thinking about the bird any more. His eyes are dimmed slightly, and his shoulders are hunched upwards around his ears as if to defend from scornful comments that aren't truly there. He needs to get out, to stay away for a bit - he can't inconvenience anyone if he's alone. Perhaps he can think of a way to fix things, to make up for how everybody seems to go out of their way for him...

He is descending the stairs with a hurried, almost frantic pace, narrowly avoiding Mozart -who is dashing upstairs with a yelled greeting to Beethoven - when he collides with Schubert heading into the kitchen with the cups and several dirty dishes to be washed. Both they and the dishes fall to the ground with a clatter and a crash, the ones made from ceramic breaking into pieces on the ground. Brilliant - another mess for somebody to clean up after.

He begins to help Schubert pick them up and sweep the pieces away, intercepting the younger composer's fumbling apologies with one of his own. When the fragments have been swept away, Schubert takes the intact dishes to the sink and begins to wash up. Beethoven lingers beside the doorway, for once unsure what to do now and thrown off-balance. He had meant to get away from everybody, but he feels an unexplainable urge to stay here - he has no idea why, he doesn't want to deal with Schubert's praises just now, when he is most unworthy of them. He cannot entirely fathom why his brisk manner and unpredictable dark moods haven't driven Franz away, being the slightly nervous man he is.

When he's finished with the dishes, Schubert - to his surprise - suddenly turns around and looks straight at him. He never asks why Beethoven is still there or why he was there at all - he doesn't enquire as to whether something is wrong. As Beethoven has seen before, he simply _knows_. He looks concerned for a second, before he replaces the expression with a nonchalant look. Walking to the coat rack and shrugging back into the mustard-coloured garment, he turns to Beethoven.

"Beethoven, I - well, I was wondering, would you like to come with me on a walk? I was thinking of getting some fresh air."

Beethoven looks up, confused for a moment, before he shrugs it off. He supposes it can't hurt, after all - it seems that Schubert was planning on going out anyway. The storm of emotions visible in his eyes calms just slightly, and his shoulders loosen just a little bit. He nods, and they step out.


	4. Symphony 6, Movement 5

Chapter 4 - Symphony No. 6, Movement 5

Countless hours later, Beethoven is sat on the front porch with his jacket pulled tightly around him, a steaming cup of vanilla black by his side. Hasshie is hunched over on the other side of the porch, head under his wing ; several of the mansion's residents have already retired for the night, including Mozart. For this very reason the house is quiet at last, a gentle light emitting from the kitchen window as Schubert washes up the remains of the dishes from dinner.

Beethoven has the bird guide open in his lap, a cool breeze rustling the pages and intercepting the smoke coiling upwards from his tea. There's a section near the back of the little book on nocturnal birds, and he has just begun leafing through it to find species he is likely to hear later on in the evenings - it's the best way to continue his hobby at night without leaving the house, not to mention it should be far quieter then. The mansion is a reasonable distance from the town centre, meaning that the only light comes from the windows and the moon when it is out - tonight is a new moon, meaning that where he is sitting he is surrounded by relative darkness.

He picks up on the occasional chirp in the distance, too far away and faint for him to identify - he contemplates the likelihood of spotting an owl, silhouetted against the moon. But sadly it doesn't seem as though anything of the sort is set on making an appearance tonight. Beethoven's mind wanders as he brings the cup of tea to his lips, reflecting on his walk with Schubert several hours ago.

...

They had been walking for about half an hour, and they were heading in the direction of the park. It was fortunately not the one where Beethoven had ended up chasing a group of children and screaming about dodgeball - there were probably park rangers looking for him or something. It was probably best to avoid that nursery where Schubert was blacklisted as well. (Beethoven never did hear the full story on that. He'd have to ask about it sometime.)

It seemed as though Schubert wanted to say something to him - he kept turning to Beethoven, mouth half-open, hand reaching for his - but never quite got up the courage. Beethoven decided to dismiss it for the moment, but considered bringing it back up later.

Soon after they reached a small, tree lined clearing with a few benches scattered around. Schubert seated himself at the nearest one, and Beethoven tentatively followed. For a while they said nothing, sitting side by side and listening to the skylarks as they wheeled overhead.

After a few minutes, a length of time that could have been hours, they heard a soft "chissick!" and glanced down to see a pied wagtail strutting around just a few feet in front of the bench, eyeing them expectantly as it repeated the sound. To Ludwig's surprise, Schubert took a small paper bag out of his pocket and threw it a handful of breadcrumbs before handing the bag to Beethoven. The edges of his lips tugged upwards slightly and, trying not to smile despite his glum thoughts earlier on, he took the bag with a nod of thanks and scattered some more of the contents on the ground.

As he continued to feed the wagtail Schubert cleared his throat softly, obviously preparing to say something to him. His motions slowed slightly as he waited, hand outstretched and holding a piece of bread.

"Beethoven... Earlier on, when we spoke in the hall - was there... Was there something wrong?"

Beethoven stopped moving altogether then, his face closing off as he bit his lip and worry lines appeared on his forehead. His frame went tense and rigid, and he felt almost cold despite the warm weather as his earlier fears returned with their memory. Schubert knew - he knew. He'd have to tell the man who looked up to him so very much how very disappointing Beethoven truly was - how he was a parasite, clinging on to anything good and pure and happy and slowly tainting it with his odd ways, with his peculiar sense of sadness, with the overwhelming darkness that rolled from him in waves when something was wrong. And Schubert would leave. It was inevitable, once he knew the truth.

That was the trouble with being put on a pedestal - there was a far greater distance to fall when you eventually hit the ground.

Beethoven's thoughts veered off course when he felt a soft pressure on his shoulder - he flinched, expecting Schubert to shove him away or something of the like - but Schubert just squeezed his shoulder gently, brow furrowed in concern as he shifted closer to Beethoven. His magenta eyes are soft and shining with a light that Beethoven can't quite interpret the cause or meaning of. (He ignores the fact that a small part of him hopes - just hopes, that's all - that he's the one who put it there.) Maybe it is that light that gives Beethoven the courage to speak.

"Indeed, there - yes, there was something wrong, Franz."

Neither of them notice the use of Schubert's first name in the moment.

"I - I don't know why, that's all. Why you - why you stay. I'm - brash. Rude. Uncaring. I don't listen to you - mein Gott, I ignored you for months on end, that's - that's not right, Franz. And I'm - and I'm sorry. Terribly sorry. But I - don't think that's enough. You deserve more than that, more than - more than me."

Beethoven heaved a shuddering sigh, and Franz looked as though he was about to say something, but the older man wasn't finished.

"Go, Franz. Just leave, you - you're wasting your time on this, on me. It's not what I deserve and it's certainly not what you deserve, either, though for different reasons than I."

The grip on Beethoven's shoulder tightened, and the maelstrom of nerves in Beethoven's gut reached their peak. This was it. He could no longer stall the inevitable.

He forced himself to wrench his head up, to look at those glimmering eyes one more time before their owner left. What he saw was a shock.

Schubert looked near to weeping - his eyes were indeed shimmering, but with tears - and it was Beethoven's fault. He really did find a way to upset everyone.

He lowered his gaze again, trying in vain to focus on the small bird still waiting patiently on the ground. He remembered that he hadn't thrown the piece of food in his hand, much to the creature's chagrin. He was about to finally do so when a gentle, almost quivering voice regained his attention.

"Beethoven..."

He swallowed the large lump in his throat and raised his gaze instead to just below Schubert's face, eyes tracing the little twists and kinks in every strand of auburn hair that brushed against his shoulders and neck. He gave a slight incline of the head to show that he was listening.

"I stay because I care for you. I care about you. A - an awful lot, actually."

Beethoven still refused to look up, hands trembling slightly as he processed what he was hearing.

"And I think... I think that you might care too, far more than you let on. You think that you care too much, in fact - I think you're scared that caring's going to hurt you, sooner or later."

Beethoven had to choke down a bitter smile. How right Franz was.

"You can come off as brash, but - it's because of your brilliance. Your mind, it just moves so - so fast. It can move from one thing to the next ever so quickly, not stopping, not often. But when it finds something worthwhile, something that it sees a quality in that's really special - it stops, and it stays there. Even when it carries on through new interests, your mind keeps hold of the really important things. The mansion. Everyone in it. Your music." Schubert gives a small, shy chuckle. "In fact, I should like to think that's why you think about me. That you don't move on from me because, somehow, you see something special in me. Something... worthwhile."

Beethoven does raise his head now, meeting Schubert's eyes with his own, which now hold a new resolve in them.

"I do. I - I really do. You're kind, Franz. You're supportive of everyone in the mansion - even the boy. No matter how those odd sounds he calls his music sound, you'd never speak to him the way the others do. You have a belief that I have tried to uphold for all of this life as well as my previous one - that all are equal and deserving of good, of a chance to shine if they want it. But you - you perhaps deserve it most of all."

Franz tilted his head, confused by the compliment, so Beethoven decided to elaborate further.

"Your music really is wonderful, Franz. It's calming and soothing and slow, slower than mine. It folds itself over your mind, gives you time just to stop, and enjoy what you have. I'm not entirely sure you realise the extent of how it makes people feel. How you make me feel. ANd you care, you - you really care about people. You try to understand them in a way not many people do, and - and sometimes, I think it saves them."

Franz was smiling now, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way they always did when he was pleased. He reached over and squeezed Beethoven's free hand gently, preparing to formulate a reply.

"Thank you, that... That's something I think I've needed to hear for a long time. But I meant what I said, you know. I've seen - you're patient, kind. Determined. Terribly clever, though you never boast about such things. And you're - gott, you're loyal most of all. That's why you stick with things, stick with people that matter to you. That's one thing you really cannot deny."

Beethoven did allow himself to smile then, a quirk of the lips that erased the worry lines from his face.

"Thank you, Franz. I-"

At this point Beethoven gave a rather unmanly screech as his hand was assaulted by a thoroughly fed-up wagtail, which had tired of watching his hand wave an easy meal about without handing it over. It gave a cross chirrup before proceeding to tuck into its loot, and Beethoven shook his head and shook a finger at it in mock anger. That was when he heard a strangled squeaking noise beside him and, turning around in concern, saw Schubert with both hands clasped over his mouth, face reddening as he tried not to let his laughter escape.

Beethoven raised an eyebrow and smirked as he teasingly nudged Schubert's side.

"You can laugh if you want to, you know, Franz."

That was all it took - Franz was almost falling off the bench as the laughter wracked his lean frame, and at one point Beethoven had to stop him from hitting his head on the back of the bench when he tipped his head back. It struck Ludwig that this was the happiest he had ever seen Schubert - and it wasn't because he had simply met gazes with his idol, it wasn't because of some self-effacing quest to bring his senpai greatness.

Maybe they could do this after all.

...

Beethoven is drifting back from this memory, a smile on his face, when he hears a soft creak as the door behind him opens - casting a strip of golden light across the unkempt grass. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Schubert easing himself down to sit on the step beside him, before the younger opens his mouth to speak.

"Have you heard anything?"

Beethoven shakes his head. "Not that I could identify. What I have heard was too far away to be intelligible. We may have to wait until mid spring."

Schubert nods, understanding the significance of the 'we'. "Perhaps we'll spot owls, later on. If we can find the right spot, possibly camp out?"

Beethoven smiles warmly, tentatively reaching out and taking Schubert's hand.

"I'd like that. I really would."

They chat for a while, discussing what they'd most like to spot and which birds seem to have the nicest songs. With some more soft chuckling they recount the wagtail incident, and at least an hour must have passed because the lights most of the bedrooms have gone out - it is as they finish their latest topic that Franz breaks off mid-sentence to give a large yawn, face scrunching up endearingly. Beethoven has to keep from grinning like a lunatic when he feels the weight of a sleepy head on his shoulder, and he can't bring himself to suggest going inside to bed just yet because that would mean letting this end far too soon.

He shifts slightly to allow Franz to be more comfortable, and at first thinks the younger must be asleep, but then he hears a soft singing, quiet and tinged with sleep and therefore somehow all the more endearing.

"Über allen Gipfeln  
Ist Ruh,  
In allen Wipfeln  
Spürest du  
Kaum einen Hauch;  
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.  
Warte nur, balde  
Ruhest du auch..."

Another song intertwines with Franz's, that of a bird. Beethoven tunes into the sweet sound and recognises it as some sort of Nightingale, the spark of recognition adding to the symphony of emotions playing out in his mind.

He leans his head onto Schuberts, each blink taking longer than the last. Franz's hair smells like freshly brewed Lapsang Souchong, and Beethoven revels in the scent that calms him above all others. As he hears a sleepy "Gute nacht, Ludwig," and additionally realises that Franz just said his forename for the first time, he thinks that if he could see in a mirror right now there would be a very familiar twinkle in his eyes.


End file.
